


Bound

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Blow Jobs, Character Death Fix, Established Relationship, Feelings, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-29 15:06:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now Valjean's cravat is being put to a new use as silk slides over skin, softly caressing where iron used to bite, and Javert is at a loss.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spuddruckers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuddruckers/gifts).



To Javert, anticipation has always been its own reward: there is a thrill in holding back, a welcome frustration in knowing the best is yet to come, whether it is a well-prepared arrest or another sort of climax altogether. Tonight, however, it is worry more than anything else which causes his hands to tremble and his mouth to go dry.

They have undressed each other; he has undone Valjean's cravat, undone Valjean's shirt, let Valjean do the same for him. They have put away their clothing and lain down on the bed together, naked; they have kissed, again and again, with as much reassurance as each is capable of mustering.

Now Valjean's cravat is being put to a new use as silk slides over skin, softly caressing where iron used to bite, and Javert is at a loss. Very carefully, he ties the knot.

"Are you uncomfortable?"

Valjean shakes his head, eyes closed. Why he wants this -- why he, of all people, should want it -- Javert can only vaguely fathom. But it must be some sort of ritual, he thinks, from what Valjean has hesitantly tried to explain: turning nightmares into dreams, removing fear and adding trust in its stead. It awes Javert that he can be deemed worthy of such trust. It pains him that it should be necessary.

He picks up the other cravat, the one he has been wearing, and secures Valjean's left arm to the headboard. He does it meticulously, as if he were tying it around his own neck, not too loose and not too tight.

That done, he sits back on his heels and takes in the sight: Jean Valjean, naked in front of him, arms spread out and head tilted back, like he is giving himself up, like he is giving himself over, as if nothing matters anymore -- _they may do whatever they please to me now; I will not stir._

Javert's stomach twists.

"You can stop it at any time," he blurts out. Ridiculous, given that this was Valjean's idea to begin with, but there it is. "Just tell me so and I will free you, I will not --"

Valjean sighs and opens his eyes. They are warm and somewhat hazy, and the darkness there is the darkness of intimacy and nothing else. "I would not make you my jailer," he says. Javert grasps at the words, the promise in them. "I will end it if I cannot..."

He stops, a shadow passing over his face. "Or if you cannot," he says, more quietly. "It may not be fair to ask."

"Not fair?" Javert echoes, incredulous.

Fairness has nothing to do with it. Valjean owes him nothing. If Valjean wants this -- whatever it is -- Javert will try to give it to him. If it is difficult, like making one's way through a dense darkness where unknown dangers lurk at every step, he must still try.

It is how they have come this far, after all.

With all the resolve that is in him, he crawls forward so that he's resting on his knees between Valjean's legs, his hands braced on each side of Valjean's chest. He leans forward, pressing a kiss to Valjean's neck, and Valjean tilts his head back again, letting him. Javert kisses the spot under his ear, his throat, the place where neck meets shoulder. He moves upward again, kissing Valjean's mouth, which opens under his own.

"I will give it to you," he whispers into the kiss. "Anything you want." He does not say, _anything you ask for_ , though that would be less presumptuous. Valjean should never have to ask -- and yet it is the only path forward, Javert thinks, the only way through the darkness; he cannot do it all alone.

He kisses Valjean again, running a hand down his side. Valjean sighs into his mouth. His arms flex a little, as if he'd like to touch Javert in turn and forgets that he can't. Then he relaxes again, and Javert moves down his chest, tracing the planes of muscle with his lips, nosing at the spread of hair. He kisses his way downwards, pausing to rest his cheek against Valjean's stomach -- Valjean would have touched him, he thinks, if he weren't secured; he would have stroked Javert's hair, maybe pulled him up to kiss him in turn, the acts of a man used to giving without ever taking for himself. And now, now he has no choice but to receive, to let Javert please him as well as he can.

The thought is emboldening. Javert stays where he is for a moment, breathing through his nose, his mouth on Valjean's warm skin. Valjean is still under him, and silent, and suddenly Javert wants nothing more than to hear him sigh again. He opens his mouth, runs his tongue down towards Valjean's groin, listens for changes in his breathing. When he gets to Valjean's prick, which lies half-hard against his thigh, he pulls back, and Valjean opens his eyes to look at him.

"Please," Valjean says. It isn't the desperate sob of a man degraded, of a prisoner reduced by his chains to his basest nature. It is soft, yearning, the sort of plea Javert has uttered himself, in this very room and with this very man and nowhere else. It still should not be necessary, he feels. Yet he cannot resist it. Valjean wants him -- Valjean trusts him -- and the wonder of it is enough for Javert to take him in hand, caressing him slowly, feeling him growing and filling between Javert's fingers. His own prick jerks in response, but he ignores it; he can wait.

Valjean's eyes fall shut again; his mouth is half-open, and Javert can't take his eyes from his face, not even as he changes his rhythm, moving his hand a bit faster, occasionally dragging his nails down the shaft -- when he does this, Valjean gasps; his hips buck; for a second the lines of muscle on his arms stand out as he strains against the ropes; and then he slumps down again, a flush high on his face, and Javert is encouraged. Valjean is fully hard now, a smooth column in Javert's hand; he gives another jerk when Javert places both hands on Valjean's hips and lowers his head with all the tenacity he is capable of.

 _You are bound_ , he thinks as Valjean lets out a low cry, sliding into Javert's mouth. _And so am I_. His chains, though invisible, are of a stronger sort than any he has known before, but he has no desire to break them. He runs his tongue over the head, thinking of all the times he has done this before, the times Valjean has done it for him -- he does not know if he has ever been allowed to take his time with it the way he does now, drawing out every little movement of lips, every little stroke of tongue.

"Javert," Valjean says, as Javert bends down again, taking him fully in his mouth. It is all but a moan, a sound which goes straight through Javert's body. Rather than distracting him from his task, it fills him with even more ardour, and it strikes him, as it has before, that he does not know if other men would do this so willingly, if they would be able to find such pleasure in performing this act. He imagines the grubby taverns he has seen, the quick encounters he knows take place, and if he were a different man, he might have known more than that.

But he is not, and he does not, and this is Jean Valjean, his first and only. Other men's rules do not matter and neither does other men's shame, for Valjean is chanting his name now, and his thighs are trembling, and his hips are bucking; he is hot and slick in Javert's mouth, strong and alive under his hands, and he is giving himself over to pleasure, no distractions and no choices.

"Javert," he gasps, writhing in Javert's grip. "I'm..."

And Javert does not let him go, does not pull away; he stays, firmly and stalwartly, and lets Valjean surrender in his mouth, takes it all without hesitating, accepts it as best he can. He closes his eyes, and there is nothing but the taste of Valjean in his mouth and the sound of Valjean's moan in his ears, and he wonders if any relief of his own could be sweeter than this, and thinks it couldn't.

He keeps his hands on Valjean's hips all the way through, and when it is over he pulls back slowly, swallowing before wiping his mouth. When he looks up, Valjean is watching him. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are glittering, and his mouth is curved in the smallest of smiles.  

Resting his head against Valjean's thigh, Javert takes a deep breath. He is hard, and yet not in a hurry; he is victorious and yet humbled. It seems to him that the darkness has retreated once more, that they have conquered another piece of their past -- perhaps it is too bold a thought. He thinks it anyway.

"You can untie me," Valjean says. "If you like." His voice is calm, the words neither an order nor a plea.

Javert presses a kiss to his hipbone before moving away. The fact that Valjean leaves the choice to him does not pass him by; it feels a little like a test and very much like a gift. He reaches for the knots and unties them with as much care as he fastened them earlier. Then Valjean's arms are around him, and Valjean's hands are on him, and Javert has not a care in the world.


End file.
